Vigilante Sin_Steamy western with a paranormal twist.

by Lana Gotham

  “It’s ok. Why don’t you take a minute and come back once you’ve gathered yourself.”

  Tom nodded and headed for a shady patch of ground. He sat down hard and fanned himself with his tan Stetson.

  When he returned ten minutes later, still shaky but less green, we very carefully pulled the eight year old girl’s corpse from the ground and laid her on the ground. I pulled my bandana from my neck and laid it gently over her face, as I sniffed back a tear. “Tom, why don’t you send for Doc Ruben,” I said. “Send one of the Daigle’s farm hands.”

  Viktor Daigle arrived as the messenger was leaving. We stopped him before he could get close enough to see his daughter’s body.

  “What the hell is this?” He demanded.

  “Mr. Daigle, we found your daughter. We have reason to believe that Mary-Bell killed her.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, saying shit like that? My wife did not kill my daughter. My daughter is in New York, and my wife is dead. You need to be finding Mary-Bell’s killer, not inventing these...these lies.” He clenched his leather clad hand at his waist and I knew he wanted to bring it across my face. Instinctively I pushed my duster away from my holster. I took a deep breath—there was no need for me to reach for my gun.

  “Mr. Daigle, when is the last time you saw your daughter? Did you take her to the train station?”

  Viktor Daigle craned his neck over my shoulder toward the barn. He paled, and opened his mouth, then closed it, and then opened it again, like a fish struggling for a breath.

  “Now take your time, Mr. Daigle sir,” Tom drawled.

  Viktor Daigle looked from my deputy then back to me. “Leave,” he hissed, finally. “Leave right now.”

  “If you could just answer my questions, it would really help get some justice for Imogene-Clair.”

  The fierce man grabbed the meaty part of my arm and squeezed. Hard. He pulled me to the side for a few steps. Tom started to follow, his hand reaching for his pistol, but I shook my head, signaling him to stay put.

  “Now you listen here,” Viktor Daigle rasped, “if this gets out—this lie—then we will see just how true the rumors about you are. I don’t care if everyone says you are indestructible, the next body found will be yours. That is a promise. I won’t have my dead wife’s name besmirched like that. If my daughter is dead, then that is a travesty—but my Mary-Bell would never have done that.”

  “Mr. Daigle,” I said calmly. “Let. Go. Of my arm, sir.” I yanked loose of his grasp. And if looks were blades, then I’d have sliced his head clean from his shoulders as I turned to stalk back toward my partner.

  “Sherriff,” Viktor Daigle called.

  I paused mid stride, but refused to turn around.

  “You ask anyone in town. They will tell you- I always keep my promises.”

  “What’s that about?” Tom whispered.

  “Nothing. We are done here for the day,” I said. We mounted our horses and rode away from the Daigle property.

  “If you say so, Sheriff. But something don’t smell right.”

  For once, Tom had it right. If the cloaked man was telling the truth about Mary-Bell, then what had all of the other victims been guilty of? And what did Viktor know? The way he’d paled as he looked over my shoulder...he seemed genuinely shocked and horrified.

  “I agree, Tom. But we got to play this one smart. Why don’t you start digging around and see what you can turn up on the others—Jo Cartwright, Ronnie Robinson, and Gilbert McCroy.”

  “Ok, Sheriff. I don’t really see how that’s going to help anything, but you’re the brains after all. I’m just your Watson.”

  “What are you talking about now, Tom?” I asked

  “Nothing. It’s from my book. What am I looking for exactly?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll know it when we see it.”

  Tom looked over his shoulder, and asked under his breath, “You really think Mary-Bell murdered her daughter?”

  I remembered the determination on the Vigilante’s face. The light in his eyes. How I hadn’t felt at danger standing so close to him with my weapon lowered. He’d killed for a reason.

  “Yeah, Tom. I do.”

  Chapter 7

  It took two shots of tequila at the Rusty Nail before my nerves calmed and I was able to push the horror of the day from my mind.

  Cheryl started to fill a third shot glass, but I shook my head.

  “You sure, Sheriff? You look like you could use it.” Her dark brows drew together and she propped against the bar.

  “Nah. I have some thinking to do and I need my wits about me.”

  Cheryl shrugged, and poured the tequila anyway, then turned up the glass, herself. She placed the jug of cheap alcohol behind the bar. “This about those murders?” She asked. She turned to the counter behind the bar to grab a tray of rolled cigarettes, which she held out to me. I gladly accepted.

  The barkeep struck a match and lit first her own cigarette, and then mine. I let the sweet nicotine fill my lungs, then blew out a stream of smoke before continuing. “Yeah. In a roundabout way, I suppose it is.”

  Again, she leaned across the bar, this time even further. Her breasts heaved from the top of her leather corset, and sweat glistened across the golden brown skin of her forehead. She pressed her lips together and I knew she was trying to decide if she should ask me a question.

  I eyed her curiously.

  She crooked one finger, for me to lean closer. I took another puff of my cigarette, then exhaled a ring of smoke, and I obliged. “This about what you found out at the Daigles’ today?”

  “How do you know about that?” I looked around the bar, but except for a group of half deaf old men who sat drinking whiskey a few seats down, everyone was caught up in their own escapades. “Nobody should know about that. Not yet.” I thought of Viktor Daigle’s threat. I wasn’t afraid of a gunfight with the man, but life would be a lot easier without being on his shit list. I know, because I’d been on it before. If anyone held the power to make my life hell, it was him.

  Cheryl’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Doc has a new assistant. He ain’t going to last too long around here if you ask me. He’s too free with his information.” She pressed her hands against the bar top and pushed away. “Besides, you know I hear everything. Drunk lips spill secrets, and it’s my business to keep this shithole filled with drink lips.” She shrugged.

  “Do me a favor. If you hear anyone else talking about it, let me know so I can pay them a visit. It was a tragedy, not fodder for gossip. That child didn’t deserve what happened and she sure as hell don’t deserve to be the topic of discussion among a bunch of drunk assholes.” I shook my head. Turning her tragedy into news felt wrong. She deserved to be alive, prancing around in one of the ridiculous dresses her Mama had special made. At the very least, she deserved a place in the church yard, surrounded by flowers—not hidden away like a dirty secret in the mud behind her parents’ horse barn.

  “Sure thing, Sherriff. I hope you catch the sonofabitch who done it. It’s one thing to go around killing adults, but it is another to take a child.”

  I nodded as if I agreed. Good. Cheryl didn’t know that we suspected Mary-Bell. I needed to keep this quiet until I had proof.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it.

  “Something else, Cheryl?”

  She gestured for me to again lean close, then lowered her voice. “I wasn’t going to say anything, Alyssa, but I guess since the rumors are true about little Imogene-Clair’s body, then the talk is only going to get worse. And you have a right to know what people are saying.”

  I said nothing, only nodded.

  “It’s just that, a few of the town folk are saying your Paw would have had it wrapped up by now.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. A bunch of macho men wannabes don’t like their Sherriff is a woman? Who cares?” I was a bit relieved that her big news wasn’t news at all.

  Cheryl narrowed her eyes. “How about lett
ing me finish? You don’t think I don’t know about the misogyny that runs rampant around here? What I was trying to tell you was that they are saying that if you don’t make lead-way the old fashioned way, and soon, then it is your duty to make a trip to Red Soot Mountain.” Cheryl’s brown eyes widened.

  “Shit,” I hissed. “I am not getting help from a witch!” Red Soot Mountain meant a price to be paid. The witches who lived there—who’d always lived there—would help alright. But I’d grown up on the stories same as everyone else in town. Those witches—those evil women—did nothing for free, and most people who asked their help, ended up ruing the day they’d ever made the journey up the mountain. I’d be damned if I made that trek. I’d be more likely to beg help from the devil himself.

  The saloon doors flew open and my partner sauntered in. He looked around the bar, letting his eyes adjust from the sunlight to the dusky, smoke filled room. I knew the moment he saw Cheryl. His back straightened and his face twisted into a grin.

  Across from me, Cheryl smiled but shook her head, sending her curls bouncing around her shoulders.

  Cheryl was as whip smart as Tom was...not whip smart. A month ago that the two had developed an ongoing flirtation, which I’d been certain was going to lead nowhere. I wondered what had changed between the pair. We’d all known each other our entire lives. I’d never known Tom to be interested in anyone before. And Cheryl could have her pick. I knew she often took lovers, but was fiercely independent.

  “Hi, there Tom. The usual?” Cheryl was already grabbing a bottle of amber whiskey from under the bar. She leaned forward, letting her long, curls cascade over her shoulders, and her breasts all but tumble from the corset.

  Tom, who’d taken the bar stool next to me, watched, dazed.

  Was something going on here that neither had told me about? Tom was my partner and best friend, and if I could count anybody else in GloryLand as a friend, it was Cheryl.

  Tom’s breathing hitched when Cheryl tossed her hair wildly as she stood, now clutching the bottle of alcohol. She let her fingers trail down the neck of the bottle slowly, and Tom leaned forward with a schoolboy anticipation and wonder. The sexy bartender continued to stroke the bottle seductively.

  “You two have gotta be kidding me,” I mumbled. “Cheryl, you are going to give my partner blue balls from hell. Cut it out.”

  My friends snapped back to reality.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Sheriff. Good to see you.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know you noticed me sitting here.”

  Cheryl poured Tom’s drink and slid it in front of him. “Knock it off Alyssa. He’s already blushing.”

  Cheryl meant business if she called me by my name. Nobody her had called me Alyssa since I’d taken the badge. Except for my Paw. But he’d left town after Mama died.

  Sure enough, Tom’s already ruddy cheeks had deepened to scarlet.

  “What? I am not blushing. Cowboys don’t blush.” Tom wiped a hand over his face then tossed back his drink and slammed down the shot glass. “Another please, Cheryl.”

  “You are blushing. And I think it’s sexy,” Cheryl said as she poured my partner another shot.

  In the corner of the bar, a poker table was thrown. The culprit staggered to his feet, his face red from the alcohol. “You cheated! You cheat—cheated.” He slurred his words. I watched to see if he’d reach for his gun, but his hands remained visible.

  Tom was on his feet, but Cheryl raised a perfect eyebrow. “Just sit down. I can handle this bar room just fine.” She turned on her boot heels and grabbed the shotgun that hung over the rows glasses. She stomped from around the bar and across the floor, her long skirt billowing from her hips as she cocked the gun and pulled it to her shoulder.

  “What a woman,” Tom said. “Sheriff. You wait, I’m going to marry her.”

  Poor Tom. I knew for a fact Cheryl had no plans of marrying anyone. Ever. She’d told me as much when we’d gotten drunk together one night a few years ago. She’d been raised by Madame Jenny above the bar (which she now owned), eventually working the world’s oldest profession and saving her money. She’d had a long-time lover who’d left her an inheritance when he died and I knew she was set, determined to never depend on anyone—man or woman—ever again. But bless Tom’s love struck heart, I knew he meant it and would pursue her with everything he had in him.

  I watched a moment longer to make sure Cheryl did indeed have the situation under control. She stepped closer to the drunk, enraged man and stuck her shotgun in his belly. A moment later he was not only singing a different tune, but was picking up the table from the floor.

  “Whelp. I’d best be going.” I slid from my bar stool and patted my deputy on the shoulder. “Don’t stay out too late, Tom. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  Tom’s gaze never dropped from Cheryl. “Bye, Sherriff. And I won’t. I’m just going to stay around for a bit longer in case Cheryl needs me.”

  I smirked. “You do that, Tom. You just might get lucky.”

  I RODE HOME AT A BREAK-neck pace, lavishing in the wind as it whipped around my face.

  Diana enjoyed the gallop. Her muscles bunched and released under my legs as she pushed forward faster and faster, and by the time we arrived home, she’d exhausted herself thoroughly.

  I, however, had not.

  I walked through the front door and Jon handed me a plate of food he’d prepared: roasted rabbit and potatoes, and we stood silently around the small table as I devoured the meal.

  Jon was silent as always. Normally I’m the one that has the need to fill our gaps with words, but I had nothing to say. I’d found a new body—and I knew who the killer was. Then, at that killer’s request, I’d uncovered a dead child. And then I’d had my life threatened.

  Not that people hadn’t told me they were going to kill me before. Every time I locked up some drunk or fouled some robbery attempt, some testosterone-fueled piece of shit was sure to yell “I’m going to kill you, Sheriff.” The extra brave ones through in words like bitch, and onetime I’d even been called a cunt. Of course that one sang a different tune three days later. This “cunt” was the sole provider of food and water to people locked away in the pokey. Hunger has a way of wearing away even the toughest attitudes.

  But Viktor Daigle, misogynistic asshole that he was, was the first person who I thought might have a chance at actually following through with the threat. Not because he was especially big or tough—because he wasn’t. But because everyone—and I mean everyone—owed him something. I’d pissed him off before, but never about anything important.

  Nervous energy twitched under my skin, stealing my words. I didn’t want to talk, I needed to do something. Something to relieve the stresses of my day. Something that didn’t’ require too much thought, but only feelings.

  I looked at the tall man across from me. He wore trousers and a dingy white shirt. I didn’t know where he’d spent his day, but from the way his long hair lay in tangles around his shoulders, I knew he’d spent some time on horseback. I watched his lips as he ate. I watched the contemplation in his eyes. The way his muscles moved under his shirt whenever he shifted his weight. Hot tingles knotted in my stomach.

  I had a particular kind of stress relief in mind. One that I didn’t think Jon would mind one bit.

  I walked to a shelf and took down a jar of the home brewed whiskey we’d distilled ourselves. I poured a shot into a glass and threw it back. Heat burned the back of my throat and seared a path to my belly.

  Jon’s gaze followed me, a smirk now pulling at his lips. Those gorgeous full lips. Those lips that were so talented...

  I smiled as I sauntered toward the man with extra sway in my hips.

  Jon raised his eyebrows, but remained quiet. He dropped his fork and it clanged loudly against his plate.

  I stopped an inch in front of him and made a show of looking him up and down, then grabbed the waist of his pants and pulled him toward the bed in the corner of the large room.

&n
bsp; With both hands, I pushed him onto the mattress. He landed on his back, the evidence of his excitement pressed against his pants, further sending a thrill through me.

  I hopped on top of my lover, straddling him. I yanked open his shirt, never mind the buttons, whose torn threads sent them scattering across the bed.

  Jon reached to caress the side of my face, and I playfully slapped his hand away.

  “No,” I said. I shrugged out of my shirt. When he reached for my pert breasts, I again slapped his hands away. I pulled the thin fabric of my shirt through the slats of the bed, and then tied Jon’s hands together above his head.

  “So Little Wolf wants to play,” he growled. I knew he could have pulled free of my knots easily, but what fun was that? He lay back and gave me control.

  I dragged my lips roughly across his neck, enjoying the delicious, saltiness of his skin. I kissed his collarbone, nibbling on the small space where it dipped in, then continued to his chest. I rubbed my palms across his taught abs and moved my lips down, down, down to the waistband of his pants. I slid my hand over his erection, pressing on it and rubbing him, up and down, through the coarse fabric.

  Jon gasped. I carried my lips lower, kissing his cock through his pants. I bit playfully at the tip, then flicked my tongue. I could taste his arousal through the fabric.

  Unable to stand it any longer, I hopped from atop of him and unbuttoned his pants. I traced my fingers along the inside of the waistband.

  Jon said nothing, but continued to follow me with his eyes as his breathing deepened. I reached painstakingly into his pants, and slowly wrapped my fingers around his cock. Closing my small hand around his erection, I again slid up and down, never speeding the movement. Pulling back his pants, and the waistband of his underwear, I lowered my head, and grazed the head of his dick with my lips. I felt his shiver. I looked upward and into his eyes and opened my lips, parting them slowly, then moistened them with my tongue. I leaned forward, less than a centimeter from his cock. Jon’s mass tensed in my hand.